A Study in Strength
by certifiably
Summary: Captain Rogers is used to being in charge. When he's compromised, he has to try to rely on someone less physically capable to get him out of trouble. The bickering, at least, is normal.
1. Chapter 1

Ultimately I would have liked to make this part of a bigger story, but since I'm a little too ADD to come up with a more complicated plot, I decided this was going to be a thematic short story. And yes, I put together another story revolving around Steve and Tony, and I just can't help myself! Sheesh.

Warnings: Violence, language, Captain America being thick...

Summary: Captain Rogers is used to being in charge. When he's compromised, he has to try to rely on someone less physically capable to get him out of trouble. The bickering, at least, is normal.

* * *

_A Study in Strength_

Chapter 1 of 3

Steve could not remember the last time he had been hung over. It had to have been sometime in the thirties, before the serum. After that, not even the best alcohol Stark had thrown at him could get him drunk, let alone get him wasted enough to feel it the next day.

He had to wonder why he felt it now. He could not remember drinking anything involving alcohol since the last holiday party.

There was a conversation going on nearby, but it was spoken in low tones, difficult to make out in his muddled state. Perhaps, then, he had been hurt. It would not be the first time Steve had woken in a hospital with odd murmurings happening around him. That seemed the more likely possibility. Even if a hospital bed had never felt so hard, his pillow never so firm.

He could not, for the life of him, figure it out. He was, however, starting to hear the conversation. It was not a conversation. At least, not one between two people. It was just one person talking incessantly.

"…used to work in financial, lower level. She spotted a mistake once, pointed it out. No one believed her, of course. Gutsy little thing came barging into my office, snapping and snarling at security. And she was right—I made a mistake. A small one, but it's the little errors that result in huge losses, you know?"

There was only one person Steve knew that could talk that much without anyone else there to help him along. He seemed to be telling a story, and Steve had to wonder at his audience.

"Oh shit."

Steve felt a hand pass over his eyes. He opened his mouth to object, but all that came out was a low groan. Damn, he felt like shit. His head pounded, his mouth felt like cotton, and the nausea was intense. The only thing that didn't feel utterly awful was the hand that passed over his hair, smoothing behind his ear. Jesus, was that Stark?

"Steve. Cap. Quiet. I need you not to move, okay?" Stark had never sounded so serious. It occurred to Steve that his head was in Tony's lap. That was… odd. Not uncomfortable, precisely, but very strange. "Keep your eyes closed." He was blinking, and the hand sat over his eyes again, brushing past them, forcing Steve to close them or be poked. "Please, Cap, listen to me."

"Tony?" he mumbled, horribly confused and very ill.

"Shhhhh," came the immediate rebuke. "Nooooo, no, no. You have to wait. I need you to be able to move under your own power, Cap. You have to play possum until then."

That did not make any sense. What happened? Where were they? And why the hell did Stark sound so leery? And hoarse, for that matter.

"You're going to be fine," Tony assured him, fingers doing strangely soothing things to Steve's hairline. "They drugged you. They'll do it again if they think you're awake, so just behave, keep your eyes closed, and let me take care of this, okay?"

"Tony," Steve murmured again, too caught up with his aching head to tense up even when he felt a body curl over him, half-embracing his head. It seemed less intimate and more desperate, especially with the ragged breath Tony released in his ear.

"I can't do this alone, Cap," Stark's voice was graveled and soft. "Your Hydra buddies know it, and that's okay, but let's let them think I'm alone for now, okay? You're no use to either of us until you can walk. I can't carry you, and I can't take out these bastards without a little help. So just stay still. Don't move. There's a camera, and they'll see, so… please, Cap."

He sounded like he was in pain. Steve… couldn't think past the pounding in his own skull. Which meant Tony was right. He was not any use like this.

It was less out of conscious effort and more of necessity that he fell asleep again. Rather, there was nothing stopping the darkness crashing forward. Steve could only hope Tony was okay without him.

* * *

When he next woke, Steve was feeling much more coherent. He rose to consciousness slowly, recalled his earlier dance with it, and feared to move too much. If it had been a dream, then it had been terribly vivid. If it was not, then Steve was not going to test it. Stark had sounded almost desperate, and Steve really did not want to know what could cause the man to take that fearful tone.

Unlike the last time, Tony was not babbling away in the background. All Steve could hear was a strange hacking sound, like someone coughing or dry heaving.

He could not remain asleep indefinitely—surely even their captors knew this—and he could not ignore that sick sound. Braving Stark's wrath for going against his request, Steve opened his eyes to stare at the wall inches from his face. White-painted brick was all he saw until he figured out that sound was coming from behind him.

"Jesus, Tony!"

The man was doubled over just behind him, and from the looks of it, he had not had an easy time of things. His face was streaked with blood, most of which seemed to have come from a gash just over his left eyebrow. It was dried, which made Steve wonder how long he had been out of it, but it looked like it hurt.

Just like that coughing had to be hurting. Tony was desperately pale, curled over himself, though he managed to dredge up a smile when he noticed Steve looking at him.

"Oh good," he murmured. "Cap, you'd better be up for an escape attempt now, because I really don't feel like waiting another six hours."

Steve had a sudden flash of memory. An explosion. A strange, sharp pain in his neck, incongruent with the concussive force of the detonation. Tony had not been along on that mission. Why was he here now? He asked as much.

"Explanations later, big guy." Tony staggered to his feet—he was holding his arm so very carefully—and dropped down next to him on the—bench? Cot?—bench. Steve grimaced when Tony caught his chin and turned his face, searching his eyes. "You're still a little loopy, I'd guess, but we're going to have to make do."

"What?" Stark wasn't making any sense at all.

"Your eyes are dilated as hell," Tony explained. "Get up. There's at least twenty people between us and the outside. Think you can handle those odds?"

"Are they armed?" Steve rejoined, easing himself upright. The room was spinning, and he took a moment to let it settle before shoving to his feet. Then, Tony was there, hand bracing his shoulder as he staggered. Damn it. If Tony was more solid than he was, how was he going to hope to take out twenty men?

"Steady, Cap," Tony said soothingly. "Yeah, they're armed. And they'll be coming. But I'm going to force the first one through that door so you can take him on alone. Think you can handle a little one-on-one?"

Steve shook his head roughly, trying to clear it. One-on-one. Sure. Yeah. That sounded doable.

"How are you planning to do that?" he wondered.

"Just watch."

Tony hurried over to a door and dropped to his knees in front of it. Steve watched, fascinated as he fiddled with the lock. Could Stark seriously unlock a prison door with nothing but a button and his wits?

Apparently he could. At the very least, he could induce a panicky, premature attack. A moment later Tony was diving to the side as the door burst open, an angry guard walking through and aiming a gun at Tony's head. Steve did not try to decipher the foreign words spilling out of the man. He just jumped and took the guy down with a well-placed blow to the jaw.

Okay, so he had been aiming for a temple shot, but he supposed he should be grateful the guy went down with a broken jaw instead of a crushed skull.

"I didn't mean to hit him that hard," Steve said anxiously.

"Hard to pull punches when you're drugged out of your gourd," Tony observed. Steve did not like the look in his eyes as he stooped to check the guard's pulse. It seemed so cold.

But then Tony was looking at him, and there was concern bubbling into that calculating stare.

"Come on, then," he ordered, climbing to his feet and limping over to Steve. "Won't be long before more come."

"Where are we?" Damn it. He was reeling, every movement setting his head to spinning. Tony grabbed his flailing hand and put it to his shoulder, and it was much easier with a solid thing to hold onto. Even if he could feel the slight shudders that rushed through his companion. Why was Tony wet?

"Research facility," Tony muttered. "Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, probably."

"Where did you get that gun?" Steve could not believe he had not noticed until now. He was really struggling with his focus, and this was not a good thing. Tony seemed a bit off balance as well, and without the Iron Man armor, he was more vulnerable than Steve wanted to consider. "Maybe I should—"

"You should what?" Tony kicked open the clip, slapped it back into place, and checked the chamber before glaring over his shoulder at Steve. He looked like crap, Steve thought drearily. How was he ever going to get his friend out of here when he was practically stumbling along like a toddler? _Tony_ was steadier on his feet, and he choked every time Steve tightened his hand too much on his shoulder. "Cap, you're an ace at throwing shit, but you're a lousy marksman."

"I was using guns long before you were born," Steve protested. How was he going to convince Tony to give up the weapon so Steve could better protect him?

"Yeah, yeah, grandpa," Tony shoved Steve's hand aside when he tried to reach for the gun. "Knock it off, Cap."

"But…"

There was no time to argue about it. The next corner they took put them within six feet of five more armed men.

Steve did not even think. He shoved Tony to the side and lunged forward. If he focused on little things, he could do this. That man's jaw, the gun in this guy's hand, the baton whistling over his head. It was like a choreographed dance, and he remembered these steps.

Until something swept his legs out from under him. Steve hit the ground, instinctively curled up when he heard the sound of gunfire—three sharp shots—and hurriedly looked for Tony. Had he been hit?

"That was good, Cap," Tony was alive and well and nudging at his shoulder. "Come on. Up."

Staggering to his feet, Steve looked around. He recognized having knocked out those two guys. The one against the wall had not been him. The man was curled around his arm, clutching at his hand and moaning. Two others were in similar states. One of them looked dead. Unless that blood coming from his skull was just from a graze.

"Let's go, Cap." Tony was tense and grim. Hand once again on his shoulder, Steve could not help but stare at his friend. He had seen Iron Man zip in and around the ranks of the enemy, taking them out with a strangely playful intensity. Stark, on the other hand, was more about weaving through crowds of wealthy investors and their hangers-on. Warm laughter and the soft edge of too much alcohol.

"Did you shoot them?"

"They were going to shoot you," Tony replied, and there it was. That chill anger, the one that allowed a man to shoot another with cold precision.

"I didn't know you could shoot."

"I've been designing weapons far longer than you've been using them, Cap," Tony shot him a hard grin over his shoulder. "You think _I_ wouldn't know how to use them?"

There was some irony in that statement, but Steve could not recall exactly why. He did not spend much time thinking about it. More men were coming, and he still needed to get them out of this hellhole alive.

Next time, he did not shove Tony aside quite so quickly. The man was an impressive marksman, possibly could match up to Natasha in accuracy. (Maybe not Clint, but Steve had yet to find anyone who could match Hawkeye's absolute accuracy.)

Tony emptied his clip and tossed the weapon, snatching another two off fallen enemies. Steve followed, fascinated at this person he had not realized he knew. Tony Stark was, in his own words, a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. He had not added guerilla soldier to that list.

"Hold up."

They stopped crouched low by a doorway, and Steve looked out across the expanse of an aircraft hangar. There was only one plane, and it was small and not all that safe looking. Beggars can't be choosers though. Wasn't that the old saying?

"No cover," he said, not happy to be pointing out such dour news.

"You thought we'd be taking their plane?" Tony looked at him, and Steve was again reminded of why he sometimes disliked this man. He was not an idiot. He was a better tactician than Stark by far. Not being an engineer did not make him stupid. "That crop duster won't make it off the ground. They have a military-grade stealth copter outside."

"Can you fly it?" Because Steve sure couldn't. He needed to remedy a few things when they got back home. The only time he had ever flown, he had crash landed. Any idiot could crash a plane.

Tony sniffed and glanced over at where two men were pacing the entrance of the hangar, armed with what looked to be some sort of automatic rifles.

"Won't know until I see the controls."

"This is not a good plan," Steve warned him. "We should take a car."

"We are in the middle of nowhere, Cap," Tony hissed. "And they have a decked-out helicopter. We won't make it a mile."

It was a gamble, and Steve did not know the odds. They seemed poor, but he did not know how many different types of aircraft Stark was capable of flying. He was taking a chance on not only the man's intelligence but his adaptability, and _that_ was not something he trusted.

"Can you hit those two from this distance?" he asked, trying not to think about how bad their situation was. He had gotten out of worse, he supposed.

It was curious, though, watching Tony brace his arm against the doorframe and narrow his eyes at the distant figures. They were probably thirty-five or forty yards away, but to Steve the distance seemed like a mile. He doubted he could hit those guys with his shield with his balance as screwed up as it was now.

"One of them," Tony said abruptly. "If the other guy's slow to react, maybe both. _Gyuh, shit, Steve!_"

Steve yanked his hand back guiltily. He knew he was the reason for that sudden pained curse. Tony huddled against the doorframe, sucking in frantic breaths. Eyes clamping shut, he pressed his forehead to the wood, lips pulling up in a snarl.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. Tony cracked an eye and looked down the side of the hangar, ignoring his apology and gathering control of his body. "What's wrong with your shoulder?"

"Do I look like a doctor?" Tony thunked his head against the wall, the low impact seeming to ground him. He looked back to Steve, the anger lessening, settling behind a wall of pained determination. "Just be careful with the super-strength, okay?"

He didn't need to say it. Steve understood. If Tony had been trying to shoot the guards at that moment, his aim would have been blown to hell when Steve tightened his grip.

"Let's try to get closer," Steve suggested.

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?"

Tactical error number one: getting caught up with concern for a teammate such that their surroundings were neglected. Too bad this wasn't a training exercise. Knowing his mistake did little to fix the result of a man and his three armed lackeys having found them.

* * *

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

So, part 2 of 3.

For general information, this doesn't have any particular timeline (I am kind of bad at that). It's obviously after the Avengers movie, and the team has worked together some but not a lot.

Chapter warnings: Violence, probably mistakes of the technical variety, an OC as a bad guy. (And unbetaed, as always. So sad.)

* * *

Last time:

_"Going somewhere, gentlemen?"_

_Tactical error number one: getting caught up with concern for a teammate such that their surroundings were neglected. Too bad this wasn't a training exercise. Knowing his mistake did little to fix the result of a man and his three armed lackeys having found them._

* * *

"Richter," Tony greeted. There was something in his voice that sent a shiver trembling through Steve's gut. It was cold and dark and oily, and Steve had never heard that tone from Stark—Iron Man suit or not. "Nice of you to join the party."

Richter was not a big man, probably somewhere between Tony's height and Steve's. He was older than Steve would have anticipated from a man in the business of kidnapping—maybe sixty-five to seventy. His hair was almost white, eyes too pale to even really be called blue, and he was thin in that frail manner of old men. The only thing that made him intimidating was the gun he pointed at Steve's face.

"You killed three of my men," Richter said, the strength of his deep voice at odds with his frail appearance. "You should have remained asleep, Captain Rogers."

"Steve's not in the business of killing," Tony said bluntly. "Don't you read the papers?"

"_You_ killed them?"

It might be strange, but Steve felt a little better hearing the surprise in the old man's voice. He was not the only one who was shocked by Tony's behavior.

Richter smirked, and that was just a creepy look on that pale, age-spotted face. Steve felt Tony tense beside him, and he silently willed the man to not do anything rash.

"You're a rude man, Mr. Stark, responding so poorly to my hospitality," Richter's accent was strange. It was not German, for one. Steve knew a German accent, and that was not it. Russian, maybe? Czech? Something with a harsher edge to it. Apparently Hydra was recruiting from all over the world now.

"I've always been a poor guest," Tony rejoined. "It's a character flaw. I'm working on it."

Steve blamed the fact that he could not hide his smile on the lingering drugs in his system. That snide statement was so very _Tony_. The sheer sarcasm in it eased something in Steve's gut, and just like that, the world snapped into focus.

It was like looking at a battle plan from above. Richter first, with his gun inches from Steve's forehead. The guy on his right, aiming low, in Stark's general direction. The two on the left, both focused on Steve.

These people wanted Stark alive. Steve did not know their purpose or why they would hurt the man, but they were not going to kill him unless they had no other option. Captain Rogers, on the other hand, appeared to be expendable. Richter's threats, while focused on Tony, were aimed at Steve. The man was using him as a point of leverage, and that was just irritating. Steve was not going to be the chink in _anyone's_ armor.

"I really did not want to play this card so early in our negotiations, Mr. Stark, but you really leave me no choice," Richter said. He lowered the gun, aiming it at Steve's leg, his knee—a torture shot. "You have three seconds to drop your weapon and agree to help me, or I will shoot your friend."

Steve met Tony's strained gaze calmly. He saw Tony's hand tighten on his stolen weapon, and he offered a small smile.

Richter was a powerful man, but he was too accustomed to people being too afraid of him to react. If Tony gave up, Steve would be dead in a week. This escape attempt had been started, and Steve was not going to let it fail here. Not when Richter had so stupidly placed himself in arm's reach.

The look of surprise on the old man's face was almost amusing when Steve's hand shot out and grabbed the gun. He shoved it to the side, heard the wild shot, and took the weapon with ease. Using Richter's body as a shield against the men on his left, he lunged for the man on the right. He made the mistake of trying to shoot Steve instead of Tony, the sudden shift of targets making him too slow to prevent himself from being slammed skull-first into the wall. The next shot was from Tony, and Steve saw a man drop out of the corner of his eye. He spun, his elbow taking out the final man.

The shots drew the attention of the two sentries in the hangar. Steve dragged Tony out of the doorway. Seconds later, two more men were down, easily taken out when they rushed stupidly through the door.

It was at that point that Steve realized his last, final error.

Richter.

How simple it was to forget an old man amidst the chaos of a gunfight. He felt the burn in his arm before realizing that shot had not come from Tony, and he dropped in an instinct to avoid another hit.

He need not have worried. Richter only got off the one shot before Tony reacted. Steve spun in time to see Richter hit his knees, blood spreading across the front of his shirt. The man was as good as dead, bleeding heavily from his gut, but he still held his gun. Though shock filled his face, he lifted the weapon, one last attempt to kill them. Steve watched, fascinated by this wild show of desperation, and yet not at all worried. Even with a bullet in his arm, he was fast enough to avoid getting shot, even if he had been alone. Which he wasn't.

Tony kicked Richter in the face.

Steve blinked, stunned at the viciousness of the blow, that kind of violence not meshing in his head with Tony Stark. Richter went down, out for the count, but Tony did not stop there. He fired again, and if Richter had not been dead yet, he certainly was after that execution shot.

A quick look at Tony revealed something Steve had never wanted to see in his friend. He flinched at the next several gunshots, fired in quick succession. The soft clicks of a man attempting to use an empty gun were loud in the following silence.

Steve risked a glance at Richter and had to turn away to keep from losing his gorge. Stark had emptied his gun into the man's face. There was nothing left that marked that skull as human.

"Tony."

It was a low call for attention, but it worked. Steve knew better than to bark at a man in shock. Tony blinked dumbly at him for a moment, then dropped the now useless weapon. He took a breath, turned, and took another gun off one of the fallen men.

"Let's go."

This would need to be addressed, but Steve recognized that it was neither the time nor the place for it. He scrambled to his feet and followed Tony, skirting the edges of the hangar on the off chance that anyone remained.

No one came.

"How's your arm?" Tony asked as they reached the exit and peered outside at the landing pad—empty of human life, but there was the helicopter.

"Just a graze," Steve assured him. He had checked, and the bullet had not really penetrated. "It's already stopped bleeding."

"Super healing," Tony said with a distant smile. "Would you look at that? Hydra has really gone to the dogs. They used to hold the most advanced technology in the world—were decades ahead of their time. Now look. They're stealing my tech just like every other lowlife on this fucking planet."

The casual disregard was not unexpected. Steve trailed along quietly, knowing this man was a heartbeat away from losing it and not wanting to trigger anything before they were safely at home. Or at the very least on the ground, in a safe place.

"Does that mean you can fly it?" Steve asked, because Tony always did seem to do better when he was talking. Also, even if Tony's company had designed this helicopter, that did not mean the man really could fly it.

"You're in luck, Cap," Tony dropped into the pilot's seat and handed Steve a headset when he climbed into the copilot's chair. "It won't be Air Force worthy, but I should be able to avoid killing us with this bird."

It was practice, he supposed, that had him aware of more Hydra soldiers coming for them. He was out of his seat again, taking the gun from Tony without needing to ask this time. Crouching by the open door, he watched as at least four men ran across the hangar floor, waving guns and shouting.

Tony was right. Steve was not a great shot—another thing he would have to work on, he thought dismally, but he was not really one for killing people. Even so, he had the men ducking for cover when he laid down some ground fire. This gun was not designed to hold more than fifteen or sixteen bullets, and he had not checked to see how many were left. Fortunately, the rotor blades were spinning faster, and Tony was shouting something he couldn't hear. Probably for him to hang on.

Steve fired off a couple more shots as they took to the air, then ducked back, not dumb enough to think the enemy wouldn't fire wildly in the hopes that they could take down an armored helicopter. They did, of course, but he was back in the protection of the copilot's chair, and then they were cutting across the landscape, moving faster than Steve had thought a helicopter could travel.

"We are in fucking _Afghanistan_," Tony declared, and Steve could hear him through the radio in the headset, now that he had it in place. He also heard the sharp bark of laughter and saw Tony's hand tighten on the controls. "That is so typical."

"At least this time it was only a few hours," Steve offered. Tony laughed again, shooting Steve a hard grin.

"Captain Rogers, you are the single most delightful person I have ever had the pleasure of working with," he said. His hands danced over the controls, and an LED map of the landscape appeared in front of them. "Okay, Cap. Geography quiz time. Mountains to the north and east, a whole lot of desert to the southwest, and Pakistan behind us. I'd say the nearest military base is Kandahar International."

"My geography is pretty limited to the US and Europe," Steve admitted. "But that little dot—is that an airport?"

Tony glanced at the display, at the little dot marked Qandahar.

"Look at that," Tony beamed. "Only about seventy miles north of us. Try the radio frequencies, Cap. See if you can pull up someone with an American accent."

Steve snorted and shook his head. It was not precisely an answer, but from Tony's response, he guessed they were heading somewhere populated with people who would help them. Good thing, too. Tony was getting paler, and Steve felt sick to his stomach again. Strange. He never used to get airsick.

He flipped through the radio frequencies, mostly getting static. Once, he heard someone speaking in a language he did not even recognize, and he quickly apologized and moved to the next frequency. By the time he was well and truly frustrated, the radio gave a burst of static, and then a voice crackled in their ears. He couldn't tell what they said, but it was English, and that was enough for him.

"Yes, hello!" Steve said, perhaps a bit too loud. "Who am I talking to?"

_"You are entering NATO-controlled airspace,"_ the man speaking to him sounded British. _"You are not on our schedule of incoming flights. Identify yourself and your cargo."_

"Ah, yes. That would be me," Tony said. "Tony Stark and Captain America. Our cargo is ourselves and whatever else is on this helicopter, which is stolen, by the way. So anything on board that you don't like—totally not our fault."

There was a flurry of cursing on the other end, and Steve could see how much Tony loved setting people on edge. Fury had warned him about this, had told him how Stark would antagonize the people around him until they were ready to lay hands on him. Then he enjoyed how his very identity prevented them from doing just that. Steve had witnessed it time and again, but this was the first time he had seen Tony in action after a somewhat traumatic experience. It seemed worse, somehow.

"We need medical assistance," Steve cut in before Tony could do any more damage. "And access to a secure phone line."

"Light up the runway," Tony said before Steve could stop him. "I am not in the mood to find another US-friendly military air base."

_"Sir… Can you prove your identity?"_

Steve rattled off his military rank, regiment and serial number. Tony just swore at them.

_"Aircraft, you are cleared for landing on runway four. Please—"_

"Sorry," Tony cut in rudely, "I am a civilian without a pilot's license flying a borrowed helicopter which happens to have my name on the side. I am also operating this bird with the use of only one arm, so you'll be lucky if I land it in one piece. If you want me on runway four, you'd better light it up in fucking rainbow flashing lights, or I'll stop at the first clear spot I see."

Steve looked at Tony in alarm.

"Please tell me you won't crash land us," he demanded.

"I'll do my best, Captain," Tony shot back. "My arm just went numb, which, incidentally, is kind of a relief."

"Are you going to make it to the base?" Because Tony's eyes were shot with red, and his face was ghastly pale, but his jaw was set, and Steve had hoped he was in better condition than he had earlier guessed.

"Considering your record with flying aircraft, I'll be damned if I let _you_ fly this thing. So yeah, Cap. I'll be fine."

That… was not an acceptable answer. That was wishful thinking.

_"Mr. Stark,"_ the British voice cut into their conversation, and Tony snapped to attention, eyes on the distant lights.

"Yes, love?" he asked.

_"…You have been cleared for landing on runway two. It is the first string of lights as you approach the airport."_

"Wonderful. Make sure everyone stays inside until I stop the engine. I don't want anyone else getting hurt if I screw up the landing."

_"I pulled in Major Jack Goldman. He's a pilot here to talk you through it."_ There was a break, and then a new voice spoke up, this one with an American accent. Southern. Very southern. _"Major Goldman, sir. Let's see if we can get you safely back on the ground. First thing's first. You need to slow down. You're coming in too fast."_

"You're my new best friend," Tony replied lightly, easing up on the throttle. "Let's do this thing."

Steve listened and watched, half out of determination to learn and then again worried that Tony was in much more pain than he was letting on. The last thing either of them needed was for their pilot to lose consciousness at any point during the landing.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Tony was powering down the engine and turning his shit-eating grin on Steve.

"Not bad for an amateur."

"Not bad at all," Steve replied warmly.

They were met by military personnel and hustled into the nearest building. Steve did not appreciate the chaos of the scene, so many men and women vying for their attention. It was more like a media frenzy than a military operation, and it made him angry.

"Okay, people," Tony held up a hand—just one, where normally he'd be placating the crowd with both, but his left arm hung useless at his side. Still, it had the desired effect of silencing the dozen or so people around them. "I need a phone, a drink, and probably a medic. Preferably in that order. Captain, any requests?"

"I don't think I need the medic, but water would be good," Steve offered. "I think we should call Coulson and make sure everyone else is okay."

Tony did that thing where his chin dropped and he looked up at the people staring at them, silently asking: are you still here? Why haven't you met my needs five minutes ago?

It didn't work immediately. Obviously these people were not used to dealing with Stark.

"Seriously, people!" Tony barked. "A phone! Water! It's not that hard!"

Several people broke off from the group, presumably to do as they asked. A moment later, a soldier cut through the crowd. Steve identified him as a General and automatically stood straighter.

"Sir," he greeted. The man looked startled, quickly waving his hand at Steve.

"At ease. Please. I'm General David Hamilton." It might have been a little prejudiced, but Steve was terribly relieved to hear the American accent. "Shit. Mr. Stark. Captain America. What the hell are you two doing way the hell out here?"

"Sightseeing," Tony quipped. "Sand and mountains. Can't get enough of it."

Hamilton looked over Stark and winced, and Steve was glad he was not the only one seeing the damage. It was not just his overprotective nature. Tony was seriously injured, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes.

"You two look terrible," Hamilton declared, stepping aside when several field medics appeared with gurneys and other medical paraphernalia. "What happened?"

"Nope," Tony said before Steve could even think to offer an explanation. "None of that debriefing crap. Hey! Where's my phone? I get a phone call."

Hamilton was woefully unprepared to deal with Stark in a snit. Steve offered an apologetic smile, even as the medics were rebuffed in favor of further demands.

"Tony." Steve set a calming hand on the billionaire's shoulder, felt the shudder ripple through it, and sighed sadly. The man was on the edge of collapse, and he just kept pushing himself. "Tony, it's okay. We're okay now, all right?"

Dark eyes looked to him. Tony's eyes were all pupil and bloodshot whites, too big and too wild, and Steve wondered how long it had actually been. He really had no idea how long he had been kept comatose. It could have been hours, or it could have been days. He figured only hours, basing his guess on Tony's earlier comments, but using Stark as a reliable information source was probably not wise at the moment.

Even if Tony did smile right then, looking caught between relief and giddy hysteria. Especially because Tony looked like he might start laughing and never stop.

"Sure, Cap," Tony said mildly. "We're with a bunch of soldiers. In Afghanistan. Nothing safer, right?"

Steve winced and waved off the people around them. A quick look at Hamilton had the man ordering his people away. Everyone but the medics. They would be needed.

Tony watched the people leaving, his gaze disinterested to the point of apathy. When he finally looked back at Steve, there was almost nothing left of his earlier intensity. Nothing but utter exhaustion.

"Don't," Tony cautioned him, even as Steve eased an arm around his shoulders, careful not to jar any injuries. "Fuck, Rogers. What the hell…"

"Don't make me carry you to the gurney, Tony," Steve chided, gentle and quiet. It did not matter. Tony still snorted and resisted the careful prodding. "I'll call home. The others can be here in a matter of hours. You trust me to watch your back until then?"

"I suppose it's only fair," Tony grumbled. "I spent the last fifteen hours making sure nothing happened to _your_ comatose ass."

"Thank you for that."

"I'm not doing it again," Tony griped, letting himself be pushed onto the gurney, his entire face contorting with pain at the sudden pressure against his shoulder. "Jesus, _fuck me_. Watch it!"

"Try to relax, Mr. Stark." One of the medics already had a stethoscope out, and it was almost funny to see the shocked look on his face when he put the bell down and encountered metal. "What's under your shirt?"

"Yeah, leave that alone," Tony offered. Allowing himself to be led to the other gurney, Steve had a moment of surprise. With a setup like that, Tony would have normally had a field day. Even Steve had instantly thought of a bad sex joke. Huh. "Don't touch, don't scan, don't… well, just don't."

"…Yes, sir."

They were taken into the depths of the airport. Tony was remarkably quiet, but when Steve looked his way, he could see the man was still awake. He just stared up at the ceiling passing by, the fluorescent lights skimming by almost hypnotically.

Steve looked at the lights, wondering if this was what it felt like to be completely mesmerized. Not until several hours later, when he opened his eyes to stare blankly at an unfamiliar ceiling, did he realize that he fell asleep. Again.

* * *

TBC...

Next up: the aftermath. Steve wakes up, and this time it's Tony who is drugged.

As a side note: Kandahar International Airport is a real place. I don't know if there's a medical facility in it, but it is a military base, so I'm pretending there is for the sake of my story.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of 3

Chapter Warnings: None for this one. It's mostly fluffy. Because, well... Steve.

* * *

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty." Steve looked over, not surprised to see Clint's smirk after having heard that comment. Commentary like that only ever came from Barton or Stark. "Or maybe I should say Snow White. You'd get that reference, right?"

"I get both, Clint," Steve said wearily. "I'm familiar with both tales."

The ache in his head was gone, as was last of the nausea. Steve had to wonder what kind of drug had been given to him that could overcome his metabolism so thoroughly. Whatever it was, he was glad to be rid of it.

He rubbed at his face, startled when he felt a sharp tug at his arm. There was an IV needle taped to the inside of his left arm, and he followed the tube up to a clear bag hanging just over his bed.

"Doc says you were majorly dehydrated," Clint offered. "It's mostly just fluid. Some bruises they say looked days old—man, you had the snot kicked out of you. Who'd you piss off?"

Startled at the declaration, Steve considered his bare arms. Somehow the doctors had gotten his uniform off without waking him. His shirt and boots anyway. It felt like the pants were still in place. He was glad they did not try to cut them off. He would feel bad asking Tony to get him a new set of uniform pants.

The bruises were mostly gone, as Clint already observed. But there were faint yellowish marks on his arms and torso, and probably on his face if he were to look in a mirror. That was… interesting.

"I don't remember getting hit," he admitted.

"Had to have happened in the last twenty-four hours," Clint shrugged. "Or you'd be our perfect, fair-skinned boy again."

Which meant he had been beaten while unconscious. No wonder he had felt so horrible that first time he woke. But why would anyone bother hurting him while…

Steve sat up, looking around the otherwise empty room. He met Clint's knowing stare.

"Where's Tony?" he demanded.

"Figured you'd get to him sooner or later." Clint hopped off his chair and produced a wheelchair that had been hidden by the foot of the hospital bed. "Banner's with him right now. Kind of ironic, actually."

"Why's that?" Steve didn't hurt anymore, but he was not one to shirk hospital rules. He waited while Clint unhooked the IV bag from over the bed and attached it to a rod fixed to the back of the wheelchair. Then, settled in like an invalid, Steve relaxed and let Clint push him along.

"Stark freaked the fuck out when he came out of sedation," Clint explained, way too casual for Steve's liking. "Banner was the only one calm enough to bring him down. He won't let the doctors near Stark now. They had him in restraints. Brucie didn't like that. _Whoa!_ You don't like it either!"

Had Clint not drawn attention to it, Steve never would have realized how tense he had become. He was grinding his teeth, and he was pretty sure he had just growled.

"Relax, Cap," Clint patted his shoulder and aimed toward a door just down the hall. "I kicked their white-coated asses out of the room. Nat's making sure they don't try to go back in. Stark will be fine. Speak of the devil…"

Clint wheeled him into a room that was similar to the one they had just left, only with more machines. Steve felt something in him release at the sight of Tony propped up against several pillows, playing what looked to be a game of chess with Bruce.

Both men looked up at their entrance, Tony's face brightening in a smile.

"Steve! You look ridiculous!"

"I don't think he even needs this," Clint mused. "I just wanted to be able to say I pushed Captain America around in a wheelchair."

Steve raised an eyebrow at him but let it pass. He was too relieved to see Tony awake and alert. He really looked like crap, but none of it seemed too serious. His left arm was in a sling, and there was bandaging wrapped around his head, making his hair stick out like he was some sort of mad scientist. (Which, curiously, was not too far from the truth.) He was a little pale, but otherwise he seemed okay.

"You said you'd call Phil, but then you went and fainted," Tony said brightly. "I had to make the call while they were poking and prodding me. Plus, it was, like, eight or something in New York, and Phil was on a date or something. He was completely pissed that I called. It should have been you. He wouldn't have said boo to you."

_Boo?_ Steve looked at Bruce, who just smiled faintly and shook his head. Then Steve saw the game on the rolling table over Tony's lap, and it made sense. Because Tony was _good_ at chess, but you'd never know it by the game in front of him now.

"Stark's on the good stuff," Clint muttered.

"I can see that."

"For the record, I was only mildly irritated." Steve looked up, not overly surprised to see Agent Coulson walk into the room. The man picked up the file at the end of Tony's bed and flipped through it, the slightest of frowns on his face. "I was on vacation and had yet to be informed that both Stark and Captain Rogers were missing in action."

"I think it's sweet that Fury wouldn't want to worry you," Tony said. "Don't you think that's sweet, Steve? Fury's just a big ol' ball of bloody _fluff_. Hey! Hey!" Steve caught the hand that flailed out toward him. He kept a straight face when Tony grasped clumsily at his hand and fixed him with a drunken, solemn look. "How's your head?"

"My head is fine, Tony," Steve assured him. "I feel great."

"Good!" Tony fell back to the pillows and beamed at him. "Because they were just kicking the _shit_ out of you. I tried to stop them—I did—but there were a lot of them and only one of me, and the suit is at _home_ because why would they kidnap me and then bring along the suit for me to use against them, right? Then you go and get yourself _shot_—"

"Tony, you should try breathing a little," Bruce suggested. Steve frowned, a little concerned when Bruce sat on the bed next to the billionaire and pressed his hand to Tony's face.

"Breathing? Oh." Tony took a breath, grimacing when Bruce made him hold still a moment longer.

"Your eyes are a bit glassy. Agent Coulson, would you bring me the thermometer?"

"What's going on?" The worry was coming back full force now. Tony was a little doped up, that much was obvious, but Bruce was still handling him like he was one of their delicate experiments.

"He has two broken ribs, another two cracked, and there was fluid in his lungs earlier," Bruce explained. Tony squirmed when Bruce shoved a thermometer in his ear. "I'm worried he might develop pneumonia, or we would have moved you two out of here already. Hmm."

"Hmm?" Clint craned his neck to see as Bruce marked something on Tony's medical chart.

"Hm? Oh," Bruce's lips twitched slightly in an almost-smile. "97.4. He runs a little low normally, so that's good. He's just in a bit of pain right now."

"You could give me another hit of that—what's that stuff? Mep… re…"

"Meperidine," Bruce offered. For the benefit of the rest of them, he added, "Demerol. It's a narcotic analgesic. Morphine is a bit stronger, but the other doctors felt this would have a calming effect. They're probably right." To Tony, he said, "If I give you more, you would overdose. You would probably suffer a seizure or respiratory arrest."

"That's bad."

Amusingly enough, Tony was utterly serious about that. Bruce responded, just as solemn.

"Extremely."

"Good thing I've got my doctor here looking out for me," Tony grinned, then giggled. "_Doctor_ Banner."

Bruce patted his hand before tucking it under the blanket.

"Try to relax, Tony. It'll help with the pain."

"Screw you, Bruce. I could run a marathon."

"When you're not hooked up to a catheter, I'll consider allowing it," Bruce replied.

"I _knew_ something felt funny down there."

Steve knocked a light fist against Cliff's arm to stop the snickering. Bruce gave them a tight smile and returned to his chair. Seconds later Tony was breathing easily, out like a light.

"You can talk normally," Bruce offered. "As long as no one starts shouting, he should sleep right through it."

"What are his injuries?" Steve asked, because, as team leader, this was something he needed to know. Also, as the one who had slept when he should have been up and protecting his friend, he needed to be able to judge just how much guilt he should feel.

"He'll be fine, Cap," Clint said, and Bruce nodded. "Hey, Coulson! Maybe we should debrief now? Since Stark's finished—Cap, you'll have to read _that_ report. Stark is fuckin' _awesome_ when he's not being an asshole."

"Agent Barton is right," Coulson pulled up a chair and set a recorder down on the table next to the abandoned chess match. "Captain Rogers, if you're not opposed…"

"No, it… it's fine." Steve glanced at Tony, sleeping peacefully despite the four men talking less than five feet away from him. "Was he like this when you debriefed him?"

"Stark never responds well to debriefings," Coulson said bluntly. "It was better to interview him while he was under the influence."

"That seems… immoral," Steve muttered. Coulson was probably right, but even so. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it now. He sighed and nodded. "Shoot."

"Stark said you were unconscious through most of the events," Coulson started. "What's the last thing you remember before waking up the first time?"

"We were just outside of Dubai, investigating a Magneto sighting—which was why Tony wasn't along." Because placing Iron Man in the sights of a man who could control the magnetic fields around metal would have been just plain stupid. Instead, they were with Storm, Cyclops, and Wolverine (which also seemed stupid, but Steve was not the leader of the X-Men, and if they thought bringing along a man with a metal skeleton was wise, he was not going to argue). "I don't know if they ever found him. A building exploded, something hit me, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up in a cell with Tony."

"That's consistent with Agent Romanov's report," Coulson said, jotting some things down on a notepad. "What happened then?"

Steve told them about waking up to Tony's babbling. He told them how he passed out again, unable to overcome whatever drug they had given him at first. The story grew more cohesive as he recounted the events following his second wakening. He had been more aware by that point, and he was able to tell them about Tony's impressive shooting.

Steve considered withholding the bit about Richter's death, but it seemed like a lie. He took the story all the way up to landing at the Kandahar International Airport with some help from a US Air Force pilot. He did not stop until he explained how he had made Tony go with the medics and then had fallen asleep completely by accident.

"Thank you, Captain Rogers," Coulson turned off the recorder and closed his notebook. "You're free to go back to your room if you would like."

"Actually, I'd like to stay here awhile, if that's all right."

No one was going to object. Steve knew it, even as he made it a proper request. There were only two people in the room who might have protested, and one of them was sleeping. The other was Banner, and he nodded his acceptance easily enough.

"I claim the TV in Rogers' room!" Clint declared, already striding out of the room. Steve exchanged a wry smile with Bruce. Hawkeye had been worried, but now that the worst was over, he was as uncomfortable with any sort of affectionate display as Stark usually was.

"ETA of the helicarrier is just over two hours," Coulson offered. "Flying into this airport is murder in daylight hours, so the transport is scheduled for just after nine o'clock tonight."

"You came during the day, didn't you?" Steve asked.

"It was an emergency," Coulson said, and left it at that. Steve watched him leave the room before turning back to Bruce.

"Natasha is here as well?"

"She was not pleased that you were snatched from under her nose." Bruce moved the rolling tray away from Stark's bed and glanced at the screen that looked to be monitoring Tony's heart rate and blood pressure. The billionaire looked tragically frail in the hospital bed, and Steve was tempted to go for the medical chart so he could see just what kind of damage lay beneath the blankets. "You shouldn't blame yourself, you know."

Steve jumped, startled by the unexpected declaration.

"What?"

Bruce looked at him, utterly calm.

"He was protecting you," he said, and Steve had to wonder what the hell Bruce was talking about. Protecting whom? Tony protecting him? Without his suit? That was… well, it was laughable.

Apparently his skepticism was noticeable. Bruce smiled and shook his head. Removing his glasses, he absent-mindedly cleaned them while he explained his declaration.

"You were fed an interesting cocktail of opiates and synthetic narcotics. The average human body would have almost instantly shut itself down with the kind of doses you were given. As it was, you stopped breathing a couple times."

"I… really?" Steve had a hard time believing that.

"Captain, you slept through the better part of twenty-four hours," Bruce reminded him. "Even after your body burned off the effects of the drugs, it took you another six hours to recover. Tony said he had to administer CPR at one point. The second time you started breathing again on your own. I suspect you had metabolized the worst of it by that point."

"Tony gave me mouth-to-mouth?" Steve asked incredulously.

"That's what he said," Bruce shrugged. The glasses went back on, and Bruce looked at him solemnly. "Tony's a brilliant engineer—the best of our time. You're aware of this."

"Of course."

"His skills are unparalleled, and he's not shy about it." This was said with exasperated fondness. Steve found himself nodding, smiling in his agreement. Because Tony was many things. Modest was not one of them. "That makes him a target. Mostly for big weapons manufacturing firms. His affiliation with the Avengers has drawn the eye of every greedy eye out there. Hydra wanted him to recreate the weapons they built decades ago. You're familiar with them."

"Tony doesn't have access to the power source they used then," Steve protested. "Why would they even think he could do that?"

"Because he probably could," Bruce said bluntly. "SHIELD engineers were getting close, and Tony is smarter than all of them combined."

"Don't let Fury hear you say that." But Steve was smiling. It was true, after all. Fury probably knew it.

"The point is: it wasn't your fault," Bruce said, directing the conversation back to the guilt Steve couldn't quite shake. "You're team leader—you said it. I know you think it's your job to make sure we're all okay, but you're really just as human as the rest of us."

"What about Thor?"

"Don't be a dick. You know what I mean."

"Tony's sleeping. I had to fill in."

Bruce started it by chuckling. Steve could not help himself. He was soon laughing right along with the doctor, and then there was no stopping it. Unfortunately, their laughter woke the subject of their conversation, and Tony blinked at them uncertainly.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Tony. Go back to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," Tony grumbled. "I want to get out of this goddamned country."

"Not until you've rested," Bruce said gently. "I mean that. Sleep."

"Fucking fascist," Tony complained, but he was already drifting off again.

Steve and Bruce watched him for a long minute, waiting until his breathing evened out.

"Maybe we should leave him alone to rest," Steve suggested, eyes following as Bruce puttered around the machinery surrounding Tony's hospital bed.

"That didn't work out so well last time." Bruce felt Tony's forehead again, his cheek. Satisfied with what he found, he crossed his arms and looked at Steve. "Are _you_ okay, Steve?"

It was a bewildering question. Tony was the one who was practically strapped to a bed. Steve didn't even feel a twinge from where the bullet had grazed him.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just found out your friend was tortured," Bruce recalled. "And that you were used against him. Plus, you've got that kicked puppy look on your face again."

Steve winced. Kicked puppy? Really? But Bruce had a point. Finding out what Tony had done just to keep him safe was like a blow to the gut. It was never supposed to be that way. When Tony was out of the suit and just another vulnerable human being, he needed to be protected. It should not be the other way around.

"I'm worried about him," he said finally. "You weren't there, so you didn't hear him." He looked up, willing the scientist to understand. "Bruce, he was so scared. I've never seen Tony lash out quite like that."

"He probably hasn't done it since Afghanistan," Bruce grimaced and added, "The _last_ time in Afghanistan."

"I read the report—he built the suit and blasted his way out of there," Steve mused.

"He built the suit and killed a lot of men blasting his way out of there," Bruce corrected. "This must have been one big flashback experience for him. Of course he was angry. At least this time he was able to keep his friend alive."

"I should have been able to protect him," Steve said before he could stop himself.

Bruce shook his head.

"Steve, you're missing a big part of what your presence meant in this situation," the man scolded. "Do you really think Tony could have fought his way past two dozen armed guards without some help? Do you think he would have tried so hard if he didn't have something to protect?"

Steve sighed and looked at Bruce irritably.

"You make it very difficult to have a good guilt trip," he announced.

"This group has enough self-loathing without you adding to it," Bruce retorted. "Next, you'll have to convince Tony that it wasn't _his_ fault you got the shit beat out of you."

Steve grinned at that.

"I've been beat up more time than I can count in my lifetime. And that was _before_ I joined the army."

* * *

"Good riddance."

Steve doubted Tony meant for anyone to actually hear that comment, but his hearing had always been good, even before the serum. Plus, he was sitting next to the man as they watched the desert fade into something greener from the observation deck of the helicarrier.

They had not been able to keep Tony in his bed. The man was still doped up on Demerol, according to Bruce, but it was just impossible to keep him in one place for long. By the time everyone had been transferred to the helicarrier for the trip home, they had resigned themselves to the fact that Tony would not be controlled.

Bruce did what he could. He strapped Tony's sling on tight, ordered it not to come off under penalty of loss-of-access to the lab, and demanded that he return if he felt even the slightest bit off. That, and he was assigned a baby-sitter.

Steve took the first shift. If he had his way, which he probably would not (what, with Coulson, Banner, Natasha, and Barton who would all oppose him), he would take all the shifts.

"If you want to go do something more interesting with your time, I won't tell anyone," Tony offered.

"What's more interesting?" Steve countered.

"Staring at a wall? Listening to Fury try to make his soldiers smart?"

"That's not very nice."

"It's the Demerol," Tony said, and there was that hard grin again. Steve had never seen the man so angry. Even when Coulson had been thought lost, he had not been like this. "Makes me mean."

"To yourself?"

Silence followed. Steve felt Tony's eyes on him and turned to meet the wary frown. Steve shook his head and looked out the windows at the darkened landscape. They were racing against the time zones, and Steve was certain he was not imagining that it was getting lighter despite his inner clock telling him it was getting later.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Steve said abruptly. "I said I would have your back, and I didn't."

"You totally had my back!" Tony looked at him, utterly confused, and it was kind of adorable if Steve was one to admit such things. "And my front, if we're being honest about it. I had the damn gun, and you, with your self-sacrificing nonsense, kept throwing yourself in front of me."

"Yes, well," Steve sighed. "I meant later, after we escaped."

"Oh, you mean when you fainted!" Tony sounded utterly delighted by this. "Hey, Cap. Don't worry about it!"

"I didn't—" Steve closed his mouth against the protest. This was not about wounded pride. He took a controlled breath. "I just want you to know, you don't have to battle these things alone. If you need anything…" Tony was watching him now, eyes narrow and closed off. Steve continued anyway. "Even if you don't want to talk about anything important. I'm here, okay?"

It was incredibly awkward saying it, and he could not imagine Tony felt all that comfortable hearing it. Still, it needed saying. Steve felt better with it off his chest.

They sat in companionable silence for a long time, just staring out at the passing landscape as it transformed from land into inky water that slowly brightened. The sun was setting here. By the time they reached their destination, the sun would be a bit higher, but it would set soon after. It was strange, watching darkness continually attempt to fall. Like they were battling to keep it at bay.

Battles with nature never ended well for anyone but nature.

"I don't like standing water," Tony announced. It took every ounce of willpower Steve possessed to keep from looking or responding. This was a confession—Tony was choking on the words—and if he interrupted, he would never hear it again. This much he knew. "Lakes, pools, tubs—_puddles_. I don't like them, won't go near them without the Iron Man suit."

Tony had been _wet_ earlier, water _in his lungs_.

"People want things, though," Tony murmured, musing aloud. "They want things, and they'll hurt anyone just to get them, and I don't like that either."

This Steve understood. Bullying, Steve always understood. He also got that Tony had been hurt, but that the billionaire was more okay with this than he should ever have to be. Some things were more important than a fear of death.

"Don't… take this the wrong way, Cap…" Addressed, Steve finally looked. Tony was still staring out the windows, but his focus was closer, like he was attempting to see his own thoughts in front of his face. "You're stronger than I am, and I get that. But I don't need your protection all the time. I don't want it. It… it pisses me off when you look at me and see someone small and weak."

"You're not weak." This much was true. Steve had seen it. He had watched as Tony blew through Hydra's defenses with his wit and a gun. And if Steve had done anything, well he had been nothing more than another weapon Tony had taken in hand and aimed at the enemy. Bruce was right. Tony might not have made it out alone, but Steve would have been dead too, without Tony orchestrating. "You're brilliant."

That earned a rueful smile.

"I'll hold you to that the next time you yell at me for not following orders."

"Just because I acknowledge that you can handle yourself doesn't mean I won't worry," Steve retorted. "You can't ask that of me."

"I'll try all the same. I'm irritating that way."

"Yes, you are," Steve agreed, but somehow all he felt was affection. He had an unreasonable amount of affection for this asshole _genius_ inventor, and now Tony knew it. A change of subjects was in order. "Back when I first woke up, and we were talking. You were worried Hydra would notice. How is it they didn't notice us talking?"

Tony's smile was a bit wry.

"I checked out the security in that room the instant they dumped me in it," he explained. "Their cameras were crap—no audio—so it didn't matter. I just made damn sure they thought I was talking to myself."

"You were talking about something," Steve realized. "About someone in financial?"

"You remember that," Tony chuckled. "I actually told you a lot of things. I'm kind of glad you were out for most of it. Personal shit, you know? But I figured if you ever woke up, it would be better if it looked like I was still talking to myself and not you."

"Smart thinking," Steve praised.

"Well, I _am_ a genius."

"You are."

Tony looked at him, and Steve smiled at the curious mix of surprise and bashful pleasure. The public praised Tony Stark relentlessly for his mental prowess, but it occurred to Steve that his closer friends rarely did anything of the sort. The man was arrogant enough without constant ego-stroking, but Steve made a mental note to offer a compliment every now and then.

"This is touching."

Natasha was horrible when it came to sneaking up on people. Steve jumped every single time.

"You need to come with some sort of alert service," Tony said dourly. Natasha's lips curled in a faint smirk, and she held up a phone.

"Pepper on the line for you," she said. "If you think your delicate heart can take it."

"A reaming from Miss Potts? I might die, but it'll be worth it," Tony declared. He held out his hand, and despite the shouting that could be heard through the line even without enhanced senses, he was smiling. He put the phone to his ear, "Pepper! Light of my life! I think we need to upgrade the security in the tower again."

Natasha's hand fell lightly on Steve's shoulder, and he knew his shift was up. He nodded and stood, knowing he needed rest even if he wanted to keep watch just a little longer.

At least he understood now. He knew fear and what it did to people. He knew his own fears, knew that he had some he had yet to overcome. Such as the thought of losing a friend again. It was a paralyzing terror, and it made him make choices that hurt people. Had hurt Tony.

He knew one more of Tony's issues, and knew what the man would do in response. It was difficult to find any fault in his behavior, even if it was a bit frightening. Because he got it.

"Hey, Cap!"

Steve paused at the door and looked back. Tony held his phone aside so that he would not be shouting into the receiver. The look on his face was strangely neutral.

"We should go to the firing range when we get back," he offered. "Work on your aim."

Warmth spread through him at the invitation. Steve smiled.

"As long as you promise to train with me when you heal up," he agreed. "Your defensive maneuvers could use some work."

"Sure, sure," Tony agreed, halfhearted at best. But Natasha looked up with a raised brow, and Steve knew they both heard the pleased tone to Tony's voice.

Exhaustion hit all at once, and Steve left to find a bed. He wondered how crazy Tony would accuse him of being if he admitted that the day had not turned out all bad.

Right. It would be better just not to admit it.

* * *

A combination of geekdom and love for Peter David's writing means I read the novelization for the first Iron Man movie. The thing about the person from financial was from that book. The person was Virginia Potts, and I always thought it was a cute way to have her and Tony meet.

Interesting fact: Kandahar International Airport is reportedly very challenging for pilots during daytime hours due the fact that the airport runways look much like the desert sand around them. With the lights at night, visibility is much better.


End file.
